Welcome, Madness
by Anne Murdoch
Summary: What will happen when Blair and Jim meet a man who has nothing left to lose?
1. Chapter 1

Notes: Thanks to Merry and Nita for intensive beta-reading, moral support and just being generally faboo, Emily for the good advice, and Mary for the beta. Gloms go out to Tanya, Seah and the rest of the Rainier Delinquent Writer's Support Society (you know who you are) for putting up with all my whining and moaning. I bounced ideas (and blunt objects) off of them for the year or so I worked on this story.

* * *

Welcome, Madness

* * *

_Spring arrived, and brought with it a gentle evening breeze. Perfect walking weather if that were the type of activity the residents of Elk Street engaged in. The rare passerby would have noticed a familiar sight in the small white clapboard house on the corner. Through the partially drawn curtains, in the darkened living room, a blue-white glow flickered like sporadic lightning, illuminating dark, featureless furniture in an unremarkable room. A man who could have been anyone sat immobile in an easy chair, his face bathed in the fitful glow of the television set. He gazed at it in a sort of dumb trance as the riot of colors washed over his face._

_A cynic might say that the same scene was being played throughout the city at this very moment by thousands of other zombies, lulled into a false sense of comfort by the vacuous offerings of a device that drained souls and deleted personalities._

_Every night after work, the man brought home his greasy bag of fast food and a twelve-pack of beer, shed his oil-stained jumpsuit and settled himself in front of the idiot box. The events of his life were barely registered as background noise. Divorce was a brief interruption. A few papers signed and then blessed silence. Bills were paid at the first of the month in cash, the rest deposited in a rusty coffee can under the bed. Work was a series of repetitive motions that involved contact with a bastard of a boss, but few others. The days and nights melded together into a numbing routine of semi-wakefulness and sleep. No one watching would be able to detect any changes in the man from last year to this._

_But changes don't always take place in the light._

* * *

Chapter I

_"Sentinels have survived for centuries, Sandburg. What makes you think they need an instruction manual?"_

Blair had been trying for an hour to finish the course outline. Every time he started, a certain genetically superior pain-in-the-ass staged a coup of his brain cells. In particular, a conversation they'd had two weeks ago while running some tests in the Ophthalmology Lab. Jim's comment had come out of the blue. His casual dismissal of years of research had stung a little.

_"What about Alex, man?" _Blair had asked._ "I think she could have used some help."_

_"She was a psychopath. I'm betting she would have been one with or without the senses."_

_"You don't know that."_

_"Drop it, Sandburg."_

"Yeah. Drop it, Sandburg, and get the outline finished."

The blank page stared at him insolently, mocking his inability to write. Blair solved the paper's attitude problem by crumpling it into a tight ball and tossing it behind him. It landed dead center in the waste basket.

"He shoots, he scores!" Blair raised his arms over his head and made cheering crowd noises.

His self-satisfaction was short-lived, however. He had one day left to submit the outline, and he hadn't even started it yet. Hadn't wanted to start it. Life was short, and if he were faced with a choice between solving a crime or writing a syllabus, well...

Lately, procrastination was his middle name where academic work was concerned.

A year ago, that hadn't been the case. Things had changed, and now he wasn't sure where his life was headed. Anthropology was his first love, but it lacked the immediacy of, say, stopping a shipment of radioactive material from being sold to Iraq, or busting gun smugglers looking to arm a local gang. It wasn't just the adrenaline rush he got when he helped Jim nail some evil bastard who richly deserved it--although he couldn't discount that entirely. It was also the feeling that he was making a real difference. Keeping the world safe for democracy--hell, it was every young man's dream, right?

"Ri-ight," Blair snorted as he hunched over his desk and tried to start the outline again.

Thing was, his sentinel research was important, too--especially to the other sentinels out there who had no idea what was wrong with them. And he couldn't kid himself any longer...there were other sentinels out there. Alex had proved it, and if she had found him as easily as Blair had found Jim, then there were bound to be a lot more out there, weren't there? So he couldn't just pack up his work and play Starsky and Hutch with Jim for the rest of his life.

Could he?

"Faulty logic, Sandburg." He'd probably never meet another Sentinel as long as he lived. And judging by his last encounter with one, that probably wasn't a bad thing.

Blair's thoughts wandered back to the confrontation in the lab.

_"Are you going to ignore the fact that you were one step away from forced retirement when we met?"_

That had pissed Jim off._ "I wasn't nuts."_

_"But you thought you were. C'mon, Jim, you needed help and you know it. What would have happened to you if you hadn't found out you were a sentinel?"_

_"I would have learned how to deal with it. Now can we just drop it and finish the damned tests?"_

And that had been the end of that. Blair had known the man long enough to realize that Jim's denial was just another symptom of his need to pretend he was in control.

Cops, man, they had enough to deal with without any extra baggage, and enhanced senses were more like a steamer trunk than a carry-on.

Blair looked down at his second attempt at a syllabus and laughed. He'd assigned a viewing of "The Planet of the Apes" for his Introduction to Physical Anthropology course. Crumpling up the paper, he leaned back in his chair until it almost tipped, and tossed the ball into a Zuni ceremonial urn on the top of the book shelf. Blair wondered if it would shock the potter who created it to see it being used for paper basketball.

Blair shook his head. "You ought to have more respect."

Except, he was really, really tired, and he liked to think that the Zuni possessed a sense of irony. Blair laced his fingers together and stretched out his arms, hearing his knuckles crack.

"One more try and then I'm out of here."

"Professor Sandburg?"

Blair jumped a little and looked up into the red, watery eyes of one of his second year anthropology students. "What can I do for you Carrie?"

"It's about my paper..."

Blair pushed the unfinished outline and unfinished thoughts aside and motioned to a chair.

* * *

The dog was out there again. Dig dig dig. Stupid mutt. Other animals, they had a reason to dig. He'd been watching a show on the Nature Channel about it just the other night. Some animals built themselves nice little homes underground that were safe for their kids. What in the hell did that dog dig for? Not a bone, that's for sure, because Fred hadn't seen one. The dog was digging for the hell of it. All the smarts had been bred out of it 100 generations ago.

There went the daisies. Little bastard. Sure, he was lazy about keeping up the garden, but those flowers had lived anyway. He admired their ability to survive in all those weeds. Now this pint-sized, manicured bundle of curls with a red bow on each ear was ripping them to shreds. God he hated that dog.

With a grunt, Fred pulled himself out of the chair and walked to the screen door. The neighbors' flashy BMW was sitting out front. They were home. He had half a mind to go over there and complain, but he knew what would happen. Same thing as last time. They'd apologize condescendingly and then ask him if he could move some of the junk out of his back yard. Like they had any right. They'd only moved in two months ago.

First thing they'd done is try to pretty up the neighborhood. Mowed Old Lady Griffin's yard for her, even fertilized the damn thing. When they'd offered to mow his lawn, he just pointed to the old hand mower rusting in the corner of his garage and said he'd do it himself.

Two weeks after that, they put new siding and a new roof on their house, re-paved the driveway, and _landscaped _the yard. It made him angry just thinking about it. They probably thought they could shame him into changing. Well, they were dreaming. He'd been in this house since he was born, and he'd live any damn way he wanted to.

If only that mutt wouldn't keep digging up his yard.

He wandered into the kitchen and shuffled through the cupboards. Under the sink, behind a half dozen bottles of unused cleaning supplies, he found what he was looking for. It had been there forever, and he wondered if the stuff wore out after a while. Worth a try.

The hamburger had been tonight's dinner, but he'd just have to order out. He balled up a piece of meat and worked the white powder in with a fork, then tossed the fork in the trash. Fred wondered if the dog would smell the poison and know something was wrong.

Probably not.

It was a stupid mutt, and it liked to eat.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim stooped down and used the mirrored surface of the toaster to adjust his necktie and cast a glance at his partner's closed bedroom door. Kid spent any more time in there and they were going to be late. "You ready?"

"Yeah, man, just a second." The door flew open and Sandburg appeared, looking marginally more presentable than fifteen minutes ago, which was when he'd rushed in from the University. He was adjusting his earring with one hand and stuffing his shirttail into his jeans with the other while holding a suit jacket in the crook of his arm. At least he'd found time to shave.

"Jeans, Sandburg?"

"It's a bachelor party, right?"

Jim almost laughed at the anticipation on Sandburg's face. He was in for a disappointment. Detective Bowman was 50 years old and getting married for the first time to a woman of the same age who worked as an executive secretary in the Mayor's office. While Bowman wasn't a stick in the mud, he wasn't exactly a wild party animal, either.

"There won't be any horses there," he said.

"Oh." Blair looked down at his attire thoughtfully and turned back to his room.

"Too late. You're fine. Just grab a tie and let's go. No one's going to notice how you're dressed."

Sandburg ducked back into his room and came out with a tie that had a black and white M.C. Escher print on it. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Your fashion sense is renowned throughout the department."

"They're just jealous," Sandburg snorted. "Most of them learned how to dress by watching 'Kojak'. They think polyester is a natural fabric."

Jim smiled. "Nice tie."

Sandburg glared at him, but Jim ignored it and snagged his leather jacket from the hook by the door. "Let's move it. Party starts in half an hour."

Fifteen minutes later, as they were pulling into the parking lot of DiRenzo's, Sandburg was still fumbling with his tie.

Jim reached over and started adjusting it. "Twenty-eight years old and you still haven't learned how to knot one of these things."

Sandburg swatted at Jim's hands, but they didn't budge. "Of course I do. It would've been easier if you hadn't hit every pothole in Cascade on the way here. You use your senses to zero in on them?"

With a final pull, Jim finished the knot. "No, it's just a gift."

Blair batted his eyelashes at Jim. "Thanks, dear."

"No problem, honey."

The back room of the restaurant was already full when they entered. A local oldies band was playing songs from the sixties. Sandburg laughed out loud when they segued into "White Rabbit".

"This party has potential."

"Don't get any ideas, Chief."

Blair ignored him and made a beeline for a large knot of detectives. A chorus of "Sandburg" mixed in with a smattering of "Hairboy" and one "Hey, it's Eddie Vedder," greeted him.

Sandburg grasped the hand of Detective Mark Trumbull, who was about twice his size, and said, "How's it hanging, man?"

Three years ago, that would have earned Blair a black eye, but Trumbull just shook his head and smiled helplessly. "It's hanging, kid. It's hanging."

Things had definitely changed. Whether it was for the better or not remained to be seen.

Jim made his way over to the one corner of the room that seemed to have some ventilation. There were already quite a few men smoking, and he'd seen Simon with a cigar box offering them to any who wanted one.

It was going to be a long night.

Jim had never much liked parties, but understood the need for camaraderie with his fellow officers. There was little enough to celebrate on the job. He'd tried to weasel out of this one, but Sandburg had been a pain in the ass about it and he'd finally relented. Sandburg thought Jim needed to socialize more and maybe he was right, but sometimes Jim wondered exactly who was running his life.

Best not to examine that question too closely.

"I see the life of the party has arrived." Simon blew a puff of cigar smoke away from Jim, but a draft caught it and wafted back it into his face.

Jim nodded and sneezed.

Simon squinted at Blair, who was talking to Rafe and Brown and gesturing wildly with his hands. "What in the hell is on that tie?"

"It's an Escher print." Jim sniffled and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.

"Escher?" Simon finally took the hint and squashed out his cigar on the top of the box. "Oh, the mathematician. That figures. Couldn't he wear something normal, like Bugs Bunny?"

Jim looked at Simon and smiled. They simultaneously shook their heads and said, "No."

The men watched the conversation for a while. "It's amazing," Simon finally said.

"What is?"

"When you first brought him in, I figured they'd eat him alive."

"Yeah."

The first day they'd met, Blair had thrown himself in front of a moving garbage truck to save Jim's life. Two days later, he'd demonstrated a knack for using anything not nailed down--including his mouth--to defend himself. Since then, Jim hadn't worried too much about minor things, like how he'd deal with some of the less-than-open-minded cops at the PD. Sandburg's survival instincts were in perfect working order.

"He doesn't take any crap from anyone."

"Nope."

Trumbull handed Sandburg a beer, who lifted it up in a toast and said something that elicited howls of laughter from the group surrounding him.

"He's good with people."

"Mmmhmm."

"If he ever decided to sign on permanently, I wouldn't be against it."

"Good."

Simon looked at Jim and raised his eyebrows. "You're chatty tonight."

Jim grinned. "Yeah."

"Think he'll ever do it?"

"We haven't discussed it much," _How about not at all?_ "But I think it's a possibility. He's pretty close to finishing his dissertation."

Simon looked at Jim closely. "That scare you? That he'll be offered something he can't pass up when he's finished?"

"A little," Jim shrugged. OK, a lot. On the Sandburg Fear Analysis Scale, this one was probably off the charts.

_"_He's sharp; there are a lot of things he could do that would bring in more money than becoming a cop. Jobs that would be a hell of a lot safer."

"Yeah, but he's having a blast working with you fellas." Megan arrived from the bar with a three bottles of beer.

Jim took one from her. "Thanks."

Megan was the only woman in the room. Her presence meant she'd been officially accepted as one of the guys.

Not that any of the other guys would be caught dead wearing a lime green pantsuit straight out of Austin Powers.

"Lord help us," Jim thought.

Simon offered her a cigar. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "Dad used to smoke 'em all the time. Can't stand 'em."

They watched the party in silence for a while.

"You're a woman, Conner," Simon said.

"It's that obvious?"

"Explain Sandburg to me."

"Sir?"

"Two women at the university almost got into a fist fight over him last week."

"Oh, that."

When Conner laughed, it made her eyes twinkle. Sooner or later, Jim was going to be forced to admit to himself that he liked the woman.

"Do you see it?" Simon asked.

"Yeah," she smiled. "I do."

"Then explain it to me."

"He's safe."

"Safe?"

"Non-threatening. Open and friendly. Smart." Megan looked over at Blair, who was still talking to Trumbull. "And, quite frankly, he's sexy as hell."

Simon drew himself up to full height and eyed Sandburg. "Define sexy."

"Don't go there," Jim warned.

"You're going to date him," Simon said with something like dread.

"No. He's not really my type."

Jim laughed. "I knew there were one or two of you out there."

"So what is your type, Conner?" Jim asked.

"Short, fat, balding guys."

"More Aussie humor?"

Megan just smiled.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to pay the reconnection fee."

Goddamn phone company.

"Look, I paid this bill, in cash, on the first of this month."

"I'm sorry, sir, we have no record of that payment. Our records show that you're two months in arrears."

"Two months?"

"Sir, there's no need to shout."

Digging in his pocket, Fred pulled out two wrinkled pieces of paper. "I have the receipts right here."

He wondered if the phone company trained its employees to use the plastic smile that was pasted on the clerk's face as she reluctantly accepted the papers from him and studied them with a frown. "The man who signed your receipts no longer works here."

"What has that got to do with it? I have a signed receipt from your company saying I paid it."

"We really prefer that you don't pay your bills in cash, sir."

"What? You don't accept money? Look, I have proof," he snatched the receipts back and waved them in the woman's face. "Right here. I paid my god damned bill, now fix it."

The woman began writing something on a piece of paper. "This is an 800 number that you can call at any time to dispute your bill."

"How am I supposed to call this number?" He leaned in close until he was almost nose to nose with the woman, and bellowed, "I don't have a god damned phone!"

The clerk's composure finally broke. She turned pale and looked at the other patrons as if hoping for help. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm just following the rules. If you call that number they can help you. You can use the pay phone over there, it's free for 800 numbers."

"And how long will it take to get this problem straightened out after I call?"

"From four to six weeks."

Fred picked up a cheap plastic chair that was pushed against the wall. It was about the right size for a first grader. Didn't matter; he wasn't planning on sitting on it. With a grunt he threw it hard and watched as it flew up and over the bureaucrat's head, narrowly missing her. It landed in the office area behind the counter, knocking a piece of equipment off a cart that looked like a printer.

The woman screamed and ducked behind the counter, pulling her phone with her. He could tell she was dialing, probably calling the cops. He turned and left, grabbing the handset of the pay phone by the door and yanking it hard enough to dislodge it from the wall on the way out.

He didn't remember much of his trip home.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim blocked Blair as he made a move toward center court.

"C'mon shorty, you can do better than that."

"Bite me." Sandburg feinted right then ducked quickly to Jim's left and passed the ball off to Rafe who hooked it up and over Brown's head and into the basket.

Rafe let out a self-satisfied whoop, and headed toward the other end of the court.

Brown snagged the ball and passed it off to Jim. "Lucky shot."

"You only wish you were as good as we are," Rafe said.

"Just the other day," Sandburg noted as he tried to block Brown, "Shaquille O'Neal called us up."

"It's true." Rafe dove in and stole the ball away from Brown just as he was getting ready to pass off to Jim.

"He said, 'Boys, I heard about your talent...'"

"Your talent for bullshit," Jim said.

"...and I'd really like..."

"...a tape to submit to America's Funniest Home Videos..." Brown said.

"...your autographs." Blair ran behind Brown as Rafe passed the ball off to him.

"Ha!" Brown blocked Blair's attempt at a basket. Blair recovered the ball and passed it to Rafe.

"It's true," Rafe repeated. "Then we said, 'Sure, that'll be ten bucks please.'"

"You sissies couldn't beat us in your dreams." Brown moved to block Rafe.

"He shoots, he scores!" Blair watched as Rafe dunked another ball.

"That's game."

Rafe gave Blair a high five and turned to Brown with a smug grin on his face. "You were saying something about sissies?"

"Lucky sissies."

"Insult us all you want 'cause you're buying the beer." Rafe snagged a water bottle from the edge of the asphalt and chugged it down.

"And the pizza. We'll take that with anchovies and hot peppers."

Rafe made a face. "Speak for yourself, Sandburg."

"OK, mushrooms and pineapple then."

"Where in the hell did you learn to eat pizza?" Rafe asked as the men gathered their gym bags and headed for the parking lot.

Brown pushed imaginary glasses up on his nose and began gesturing with his hands. "Well, see, there are these tribesmen in the Amazon who put banana leaves and fire ants on their pizza..."

"Hey, watch it." Blair took a half-hearted swing at Brown who immediately snagged his wrist and maneuvered him into a headlock.

"Agh! Police brutality!"

"Watch it Hairboy, or you'll be sleeping with the fishes." Brown rubbed his knuckles against the top of Blair's head.

"Ouch!" Blair put his hand on the top of his head. "You picked on kids at the playground when you were little, didn't you?"

"Enjoyed every minute of it."

Jim swatted Brown's arm lightly. "Don't rough him up too much, man, it's his week to cook."

Brown released Blair with a friendly cuff on the back of the head and made a face. "Better you than me, Ellison."

"I resent the implication of that remark," Blair drew himself up indignantly. "Guess I won't be sharing my famous recipe for Oysters Sandburg. Guaranteed to make any woman weak with desire."

"Oh, so that's how you bag all those women," Rafe said. "They're so feverish from food poisoning they think you're Fabio."

"Very funny."

"Who's Fabio?" Brown asked.

"You know, that butter guy. The one on the covers of all those romance novels..."

Brown took a step back and gaped at Rafe.

Blair smirked. "I knew you liked to read, man, but..."

"Hey!"

Rafe made a grab for Sandburg, but they were already at Jim's truck. Blair feinted left then ducked around Jim, pulled the door open and hopped in, shutting and locking the door behind him. He smiled at Rafe and waggled his fingers at him.

Brown shook his head in disbelief. "Kid thinks he's safe."

"Meet you at Lucky's in 45 minutes," Jim said, getting into the driver's seat.

"Lucky's," Brown exclaimed in delight. "Gotta stop by my apartment and get my pool cue."

"Sandburg can't play pool worth a damn," Rafe observed.

"And your point is?" Brown inquired.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Smitty held up a yellow time card and a black marking pen. "I told you last week, no OT. I see here on this card...OT." He made a deliberate line through the page. "When I say no OT, I mean, no OT."

"I worked 4 hours over on Friday to get Beckman's Porsche ready. Like you told me to."

"I didn't authorize you to work over on it. You were supposed to do it on regular time."

"I couldn't get it done, I had other cars to work on."

"Not my problem."

"You're cheating me."

"Tell it to the judge." Smitty turned on his heel and walked back into his grimy office, closing his door with deliberate force.

Unemployment was low; he could get a job that paid better almost anywhere. Thing was, he'd been working in this garage for better than 15 years. He liked it here. Most of the time they ignored him and let him do his job in peace. Lately, though, Smitty had been giving him more and more grief. He knew why. After all these years, he was the highest paid mechanic in the shop. That wasn't saying much, but at least he made more than minimum wage, which was what the poor punks Smitty hired right out of vocational school were making.

Fred looked into the front office. Deb was standing at the counter having a heated discussion with a woman whose black hair was pulled up in a bun so tight she probably didn't need a girdle.

Deb turned in his direction and pointed. Blaming whatever the woman was steamed about on him. Typical. She couldn't take a phone message and she was making twice as much as he was, but the first time something went wrong she was pointing fingers at someone else. Guess it helped that she was screwing the boss.

The broad with the tight hair looked in the direction Deb was pointing and strode purposefully into the shop.

"Are you the man who worked on my car last week?"

Fred looked through the bay door windows at the Horizon parked by the entrance. Piece of junk looked familiar. "Yes ma'am." Her skin looked paper thin against her bony face, like one of those mummy's he'd seen on the Discovery channel.

"My car is making a noise that it wasn't making before you fixed it."

"What kind of noise?" It used to be fun asking that question. You'd get the poor schmucks to try to imitate car noises. This crone wasn't falling for it though.

He tuned her out; dimly aware that she was using him as an example of what was wrong with the world today. She was a scrawny old woman with a high pitched, plaintive voice. Her neck looked particularly brittle, and he started thinking about how little effort it would take to reach out with both hands and snap it.

"Are you listening to me?"

He brought his gaze up to her face. "Yes, ma'am. Why don't you leave your car here and I'll see if I can find out what's making the noise?"

"I'm a busy woman, I need my car. Do you have a car I can use while you fix it?"

"No, ma'am, we don't provide loaners."

"We'll see about that. Who's in charge here?"

Fred directed her to Smitty's office. Let the boss deal with the old hag. Smitty would probably ream him for it later, but at least he was used to it. Better than letting a woman walk all over him.

Twenty minutes later, the customer left. Smitty came out, chewed him a new orifice and disappeared again. At least his pay hadn't been docked. There were times lately when he was sorely tempted to bash Smitty's head in with a crescent wrench, but so far, he'd managed to keep it under control.

Another customer pulled up to the bay door.

Frequently he entertained fantasies about picking off customers as they came in. The roof of the diner across the street would be just right. Set up a sniper's nest there and just pick people off all day long. He didn't know much about guns, though, and his eyesight was bad.

Deb rocketed out of the office like her hair was on fire and opened the big door for the customer. That meant only one thing: a young guy. Didn't matter if he was butt ugly, she went for anything under the age of 30.

The customer pulled his '62 Volvo inside and got out. Long curly hair, flannel and an earring. One of those grunge rockers, probably. Deb practically wet herself. He almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost.

"Can I help you?" Her voice was calculatingly sweet.

"Hi," he smiled at Deb. Big mistake. Like giving chum to a shark. "Just came to get an oil change."

"OK," Deb giggled and grabbed his arm, "Come on into the office and we'll get the paperwork taken care of. Fred, he needs an oil change. About thirty minutes, right?"

She was hoping Fred would go along with that so she'd have time to harass the man into a date, but he owed her one from earlier.

"Yeah."

Seven minutes later--record time--he was done. He punched the button for the garage door as he leaned into the office. The kid was sitting in the waiting area and Deb had grabbed the seat right next to him. She wasn't touching him--Smitty had already threatened to fire her for that kind of shit once before--but she was leaning close to him in a way that made her boobs peak out over the top of her shirt. What a slut.

"Car's ready, sir."

"Thanks!" The guy had already paid the bill. Now he jumped up and high-tailed it out of there before Deb even had a chance to say goodbye. The open garage door saved him some time, Fred noted with a smile. His tires even squealed a little as he backed up. That was one customer who wouldn't be back.

Deb glared at him. "I thought you said thirty minutes?"

He smiled and shrugged.


	4. Chapter 4

Simon looked up from his magazine as the door of his apartment flew open and Daryl breezed in. His son was still dressed in the grungy clothes he'd worn to soccer practice. Seemingly unaware of his father's presence, the teenager dropped his backpack on the floor and flopped down on the couch, grabbing the remote and aiming it at the TV.

"Ahem."

"Hey, Dad. How's it going?" Daryl gave a little half wave but didn't move his eyes from the glow of the tube.

"It's going fine. It'll be going even better when I see you sitting at the kitchen table doing your homework."

"But Dad," Daryl whined in a tone particularly unflattering for a young man of his age, "There's a game on right now. I've got all weekend to do homework."

Simon walked over to TV and turned it off, using his considerable size to block the infrared sensor. "What grade did you get on your Biology midterm?"

"Dad..."

"What grade?"

Daryl's shoulders slumped in defeat as he tossed the remote onto the couch. "A C."

"Minus," Simon added. "That doesn't cut it. I know you can do better than that. You have two more weeks before the end of the school year and I want to see at least a B on your final report card. Get to the homework." Simon nodded in the direction of the table.

"It's not fair," Daryl complained, but nevertheless got slowly to his feet and grabbed his backpack.

"Life isn't fair, and being sullen won't help your situation, young man. You're capable of good grades. When you don't get them, it means you aren't putting enough effort into it. That's unacceptable."

"Yes, sir."

"Look, son, I know it's tough, but I want to see you make something out of your life. I had to work hard to get where I'm at, and it paid off."

"But Mom would let me watch the game..."

Simon grumbled in irritation. Why did the kid always try to play him against Joan?

"Do I look like your mother?"

"No, sir." Daryl tried to conceal a laugh. "She has more hair."

"Son..."

Daryl saw the look on his father's face and was partially successful at wiping the grin from his own. "Sorry, Dad."

Simon had to control the urge to laugh. No need to encourage the boy. "Get to work."

"Yes, sir."

Daryl sat down at the table, unzipped his backpack and opened his books with more force than was called for. Maybe Simon was being too rough on his son, but damn it, he wanted Daryl to succeed. Too many kids these days coasted through high school and came out totally unprepared for college or the real world. Simon was damned if he'd let that happen.

Still, Simon didn't want to put so much pressure on Daryl that they'd end up enemies.

Simon sighed and pulled a cigar from his pocket. Maybe he'd offer Daryl an olive branch. "Some of the men are coming over tonight. If you finish this up maybe we'll all go to the races."

The comment had the desired effect. Daryl's eyes lit up and he sat straighter in his chair. "Can I make some bets?"

Damn. Maybe not the most desirable effect.

"Only if I don't see you. Your mother would have my head on a platter for even taking you to the track." Simon cringed at the thought of the abuse she'd dish out over something like that.

"You guys all gonna bet on who Blair bets on again?"

"Who told you about that?"

Daryl shrugged and smiled, rubbing his fingers together. "Just heard he had the Midas touch."

Simon sighed again and pointed at Daryl's open textbook. "Schoolwork. Now."

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Fred had just fallen asleep when the knock came at the door. He struggled to adjust the recliner upright and grumbled. It damn well better be the phone company; he'd had just about enough of their bullshit.

As he got up, he bumped the rickety end table beside the chair and several empty beer cans clanked to the floor. He watched with irritation as foamy remnants of warm beer soaked into the brown and black shag carpeting.

He let out a string of expletives, kicked the table hard enough to cause pain in his big toe, and stalked over to the front door. As he yanked it open he shut his mouth with a snap. Two Cascade cops stood on his front stoop.

"What do you want?" he asked suspiciously. He wondered if the phone company had filed a complaint.

"Frederick Rice?"

"Yeah, that's me."

A woman who looked too small to be any good as a cop said, "We'd like to ask you a few questions, sir. Do you mind if we come in?"

"Yes I do. I'll come out." He pushed at the battered screen door.

"Sir, you aren't wearing any pants."

"So? Teenage girls wear less than this to school these days. I ain't breaking any laws sitting on my own front porch in my boxers." He walked over to one of the plastic lawn chairs and gestured at two others. "Have a seat."

The male officer, who hadn't said anything, remained standing as the female officer took a seat. Looked like they were going to play good cop bad cop on him.

"Mr. Rice, are you familiar with your neighbors, the Russells?"

"Yeah, I'm familiar," he snorted.

"You know that they have a poodle?"

"I thought it was just a big rat."

"Was?"

"Is. Whatever. What do you want?"

"Someone poisoned the dog two days ago. The vet said it was probably rat poison."

"What a shame."

"Do you have any idea how the dog ate rat poison?"

"Beats me. They're saying it was me, right?"

"They said he was in your yard just before he became ill."

"Ain't that some kind of violation? Letting their dog run around loose like that?"

"Yes, sir. They said he dug a hole under the fence."

"What a shame."

The male officer finally spoke. "Did you poison your neighbor's dog, Mr. Rice?"

"Hell, no! Those people have been a pain in my ass since they moved in. No, I didn't kill their stupid mutt." He stood. "Anything else?"

"They found a long scratch on the side of their car. Looked like someone dragged a key along it. They say it happened some time last night."

"They got insurance."

"That's not the point, sir."

"No, the point is, these assholes are going to blame me if a cat pisses in their rose bushes. I ain't bothered them once since they moved in. If they got a problem with me, then let them come over here and say something face to face, otherwise, I got nothing more to say to you."

"We'll be in touch."

"Yeah, touch this," he mumbled and scratched his crotch.

"What was that sir?" The male cop had stopped and was giving him the evil eye.

"Nothing. Have a nice day," he said with exaggerated courtesy.


	5. Chapter 5

"Excuse me."

The woman who was currently leaning past him to grab two under-ripe tomatoes reeked of perfume. Jim started to reply but instead grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and turned away, sneezing three times and mopping his eyes.

When he looked back, the woman was moving swiftly toward another aisle, looking embarrassed. He noted that there was an entire bin of tomatoes where she'd been standing. It wasn't the first time a woman had done that to him in the grocery store and it probably wouldn't be the last. He'd managed to get a few dates that way, but none of them had worked out.

At least he?d had his senses turned down. Sandburg and a particularly nasty experience had taught him that. Jim had gone into a grocery store once with everything turned up and had overloaded on the smells of pesticides, rotting meats, plastic, and other unpleasant things. He?d zoned out for a full five minutes trying to identify one of them and had drawn the attention of a concerned store manager. Luckily Sandburg, although he?d had no experience to speak of, had been able to pull him out of it.

"Jim," Blair had said, "Opening up your senses in a grocery store is like lifting the bun on a Wonder Burger. It?s possible to know too much about your food."

The wisdom of that statement was undeniable.

Jim grabbed a couple of ripe tomatoes and glanced at the list. Eggplant, rhubarb, leeks, curry powder, sweet potatoes and something called Ugli fruit, all written in Sandburg's trademark scrawl. The combination was unappealing, to say the least, and he dreaded the thought that it was all going to end up in the same dish. Sandburg could conjure up some surprisingly edible things with odd foods, but there had been a few times over the last couple of years when Jim had come home to find the loft smelling like the dump on a hot day.

What he needed was a pre-emptive strike. It was his night to cook, so he grabbed a couple of baking potatoes and some broccoli, mentally adding a couple of ribeyes to the list.

Jim wandered over to the chip aisle and tossed a bag of Doritos, some Funyons, and a can of bean dip into the cart. When he got to the meat section, he grinned evilly. Braunschweiger. Sandburg would hate it. A "heart attack in a tube", he'd call it. He added that to his cart along with the steaks. He wouldn't go so far as to call Sandburg a health Nazi--he'd seen the kid eat plenty of junk since they'd met--but there were times when he was a little too enthusiastic about healthy foods. Like this morning, when he'd had to endure a lecture about eating bacon and eggs every morning.

A few minutes later, Jim had gathered everything on his list and a few things that weren't.

On the way to the checkout line, Jim snagged a box of Twinkies from the shelf, grinning as he pictured his partner's expression when he saw them. He was jarred out of his reverie by the clattering of a cart hitting his. It was the same woman from the produce aisle.

"Oh, excuse me," She said breathlessly. "I didn't see you."

"No problem. After you." Jim pulled his cart back graciously.

She wasn?t an unattractive woman, but definitely not his type. If he wasn't careful, he was going to zone on all of her artificial enhancements. Black roots peeked from beneath white-blonde bleached hair; thin scars running from her jaw line to her ears indicated recent plastic surgery; her teeth were capped--though he noticed a slight yellowing of her teeth and knew she was a smoker; her makeup was applied so thickly that he could see little bits of powder flaking off. A quick glance at her too-perky breasts left him guessing she?d had a boob job as well.

Before his senses had come back online, he might have made a pass at her. At times, he had to admit they were useful. He didn't have the patience to date a woman as high-maintenance as this one appeared to be.

"I haven't seen you here before," she said, looking into his basket. "Are you new to the area?"

"No, I've lived here for years."

The woman nodded in understanding. "Your wife usually does the shopping."

Telling her that his male roommate usually did the shopping would probably make her lose interest.

Or try harder.

"Yeah."

She glanced at his bare ring finger.

"Have you tried Ugli fruit before? It's very good. It tastes just like grapefruit."

"Only three times more expensive." Well, if Sandburg wanted to waste his money, that was his business.

She laughed then. A kind of high-pitched giggle that belonged more to twelve-year-old than a woman her age.

"So what do you do?" She looked him up and down. "If I had to guess, I'd say you're a fireman."

Jim debated telling her the truth. It wasn't a hard decision to make. She had The Gleam. A telltale look in her eyes that screamed trouble. She didn't want a date with Jim Ellison, she wanted a date with a fireman or a cop or a soldier, or any profession she associated with danger.

"I'm the night janitor at the Wonder Burger over on Seventh."

The woman laughed again, only this time the pitch was a little higher.

"You're teasing me."

"No, Ma'am."

Her smile faded. "Well...there's nothing wrong with that."

"No," he said sincerely. "There isn't."

The woman turned and pretended to be extremely interested in a copy of Quilting magazine on the rack in front of her. He could tell from the absence of calluses on her fingers that she'd probably never sewed a stitch in her life.

Jim had to give Angie, the cashier, points for self-control. She'd been working at Super Food for little over a year, and he usually went to her line if it wasn't busy. She was friendly, competent and older than most of the other teenagers who were hired in at minimum wage to run the registers. Right now, she was running his former admirer's food over the scanner without giving in to the laughter he could see in her eyes.

The woman wrote a check, took her receipt and pushed her cart toward the exit without once looking back at Jim.

Angie cast a quick glance over her shoulder. Assured that the woman was out of earshot, she grinned crookedly and said, "How are you tonight, Detective Ellison?"

Jim grinned and winked at her, amused when she turned a deep red. "Couldn't be better, Angie, how about you?"

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Fred saw the bright yellow envelope taped to his door before he even reached the driveway. It didn't take a psychic to figure out it was going to be more bullshit.

Story of his life these days.

Fred gunned the gas as he pulled in and then slammed on the brakes, but not in time to keep the front end of his car from knocking the garbage cans over hard. The noise was loud enough to bring his neighbor to the window. He flipped her the bird as he got out of the car and she quickly ducked behind the curtains.

The Buick's door didn't close when he got out so he kicked it shut with enough force to buckle the already rusty panel. Seething now, he stalked to the door and ripped the envelope free, tearing it nearly in half as he did. The tape had left a sticky rectangular mark on the glass of the storm window.

"Assholes."

He should probably make them come down here and clean it off themselves.

"Cascade Department of Social and Health Services" was neatly typed on the front of the envelope.

It suddenly struck Fred that he was receiving a warning for the trash that was now scattered all over his driveway.

Shoving the key into the lock and shouldering his way into the house he headed straight for the kitchen and pulled out the bottle of Jack Daniels he kept for when he wanted to get really drunk. He didn't feel like watering it down with ice and coke today.

Fred moved into the living room with bottle, glass and envelope in hand. He sat down in his tattered brown recliner with enough force to strain the springs. He held the torn pieces of the letter together and squinted at the small type. It was a short letter; at least it had that going for it. They were telling him to mow his lawn. Said its present condition encouraged ticks, mice and mosquitoes and that he was violating the local health code. Gave him a long string of numbers, like he was supposed to know what the hell they meant. He had 14 days to comply or they'd start fining him $25 a day until he did it.

He twisted the cap off the bottle and gulped down a fourth of its contents. The fire in his throat focused him and helped him think.

It was the Russells. He didn't have any doubts about that. They'd been after his ass since the day they moved in, like it was their right to come in some place and start setting the rules. Well that was bullshit, and he'd had enough. If killing their mutt didn't get through to them, he'd have to think of something else.


	6. Chapter 6

"He always play the stereo that loud, Jim?" Joel asked as he followed Jim, Megan and Henri from the elevator. A distinctive bass beat vibrated through the thick wood of the door.

"Not usually. Must be suffering from post-exam euphoria. He was up grading finals all last night."

"No sleep?" Joel shook his head sadly. "How does he do it?"

Brown rubbed his hands together gleefully. "I don't know, but this could definitely work to our advantage."

"I don't know about that," Megan said. "I heard he beat you boys once while he was suffering from a concussion."

"A _mild_ concussion," Brown corrected.

Megan grinned. "Well, he hasn't gone up against me, yet. I've been playing poker since I was four."

Jim gestured for silence as the rest of them came to a halt behind him. Carefully he opened the door to the loft and peeked in. Blair was in the kitchen, cooking dinner. He had a pair of tongs in one hand, which he was opening and closing in a hyperactive rhythm.

He was also singing.

"Walk like an Egyptian..."

Joel almost lost it then. Sandburg crooked both hands--one encased in a fat oven mitt--and 'did the Egyptian' over to the stove.

Megan put a hand on Joel's back and leaned into him for support, shaking against him with silent laughter. Jim just grinned and watched as Blair checked the contents of the oven, chopped vegetables, and put butter in the microwave, all while shucking and jiving in time with the music. The song came to an abrupt end, interrupted by an annoying DJ, but that didn't stop Sandburg. He finished out the song on his own.

When he turned to grab a wooden spoon from the counter, he stopped cold.

Joel felt a moment of pity for Blair, but he wouldn't have given up seeing it for the world.

"Uh, hi guys," he smiled weakly and began to turn red. "How long have you been there?"

Megan finally laughed out loud and Brown began to clap. He was soon joined by the others, the noise punctuated by Joel's deep belly laugh.

"You shoulda been a dancer, Sandburg," Brown laughed.

Blair leaned over and rested his forehead on the counter, still the color of a freshly cooked beet, but the shaking of his shoulders indicated he was laughing too.

Minutes later, the laughter died down. Joel was wiping his eyes on his sleeve and Megan was trying, unsuccessfully, to take deep, calming breaths. With each exhalation, she started laughing again.

Blair straightened and cleared his throat, grinning sheepishly. The color hadn't quite left his face. "Uh, so...where are Simon and Rafe?"

"Had to run some errands, they'll be here soon."

"Cool."

Joel smiled. Yeah, cool. The kid was going to be harassed about his little performance down at the station for weeks, but at least he'd been spared the humiliation of having the captain as a witness.

Jim walked into the kitchen and clamped a hand down on Blair's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. "So what's for dinner, Tutankhamen?"

"Brats, sauerkraut, baked beans, corn and Chex mix with beer, beer and beer on the side," Blair rattled off the menu with a slight grimace.

"You've trained him well, Elli-san," Brown observed.

"Oh," Blair grinned, slapping a palm against his head, "and curried leeks on rice."

"That's the Sandburg I know and love," Joel said appreciatively. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only person who really liked Blair's cooking. He looked forward to seeing what the kid would come up with next.

Brown elbowed his way to the refrigerator and started passing beers behind him until everyone had one. He eyed Blair over the door and said, "Walk Like an Egyptian?"

"Hey!" Blair said, his indignity betrayed by the humor in his eyes. "That was my favorite song when I was ten."

Attention was diverted from Blair as Simon arrived. The captain walked through the door, spreading his arms wide and bowing a little. "Gentlemen," he boomed, "the life of the party has arrived."

Megan peered over the captain's shoulder and exclaimed in delight. "Rafe!"

Simon scowled. "Watch it Conner, or you'll be on the next catamaran back to Australia."

"Promises, promises."

Joel smiled and sat down in the living room with a beer, watching the mayhem and frivolity in the kitchen. Rafe had brought a grocery sack full of junk food. Jim dug through it murmuring approval at his choices while Megan tried to pry recipes out of Sandburg.

Lately, Friday poker night had become something he looked forward to all week. As he got older, the thrill of police work had faded somewhat and his greatest joy came from hanging out with his friends. Especially lately, when things seemed to be going smoothly for all of them and Major Crime hadn't had to work on any emotionally difficult cases. The younger members of the department exuded an optimism and spirit that had been missing back when poker night consisted of Simon, Jim, Jack, himself and a bunch of older cops who had by now all retired or quit.

Jim had had a gargantuan chip on his shoulder back then, but he'd softened up considerably in the last few years.

Brown said something Joel couldn't make out, but whatever it was, it made Megan turn around and whap him over the head with a wooden spoon. Joel laughed. There wasn't a single person in the room he wouldn't give his life for in a heartbeat.

It was a good feeling.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

"I ain't comin' in t'day," Fred slurred into the receiver.

"What do you mean you 'ain't comin' in'?" Smitty asked. "We've got work piled to the ceiling in here and Ron's out on vacation. Get your ass in here."

"Sick," he slurred.

"Drunk, more like it. You're already an hour late. If you aren't in here by 9, you aren't getting paid this week."

"Can't. Be in tomorrow."

"Hey, you know what? Don't bother coming in at all. We had too many complaints about you lately anyway."

Click.

"Shit."


	7. Chapter 7

Blair opened his wallet one more time and stared at the contents before closing it and putting it in his back pocket.

"That money isn't going to suddenly reappear, Chief."

"I can't believe she cleaned me out."

"I can't believe you staked all your money on that hand."

"It was a sure thing, man."

"Uh-huh."

"Hey, it was only thirty dollars."

"Your last thirty dollars before you check comes through."

"True."

"You could always use the hundred."

"Huh-uh. Don't have it."

"What happened to it?"

"It's a looooong story, man, you don't want to hear it."

Jim climbed into the truck and reached over to unlock the passenger door. When Blair got in and didn't continue the conversation, Jim sighed inwardly. Some days getting information out of the kid was like pulling teeth. In his peripheral vision, Jim saw Sandburg's knee bouncing up and down like a jackhammer. Jim waited until he'd pulled out of the parking garage before he said anything.

"C'mon, let's have it."

"Have what?"

Apparently Sandburg's brain had already moved on to greener pastures. "The hundred?"

"Oh, OK. Last week, I went out with Janie. She's a TA in the English department. She's got the most beautiful..." Sandburg glanced over at Jim and cleared his throat. "Anyway, she convinced me to go to this 'quaint little restaurant'. It's called Dom's."

"I've heard of it." Jim knew what was coming.

"Uh-huh," Blair nodded. "The place was so 'quaint' that I had to dig change out from under the seat cushions in the Volvo to pay the bill."

Jim shook his head.

"Janie ordered Lobster Thermidor. Poof!" Blair held his hands up and flicked his fingers out. "There went the hundred."

"I take it you two won't be picking out china patterns any time soon."

"Major understatement. She is totally aware of the kind of money I make. I think she'd be better off trolling for a business major." Blair changed the subject, "So what's the plan for today?"

"Go talk to Sam Ward about the jewelry heist last week. The DA needs some more background information before she tries for an indictment on the suspects."

"Can you drop me off at the University first?"

"What's the matter, Chief, not looking forward to talking to Mr. Ward again?"

Blair grinned. "Sorry, man. You know how I _love _prostate trivia, but I've got a lot of work to catch up on at my office."

Jim made a detour toward the university.

Blair laughed to himself.

"Voices in your head again, Chief?"

"Habañero glaze." Blair shook his head. "That was a thing of beauty."

"Mmmm."

"What, you don't think so?"

Jim shook his head. "Rafe and Brown overlooked two important things when they hatched their plan."

"Yeah?"

"One: Captain Bellows is a superior officer."

"Ouch. What's two?"

"He doesn't have a sense of humor."

Blair leaned back and closed his eyes. "Oh, man. They're toast."

"Uh-huh."

The radio crackled to life asked for any units in the vicinity of Elm Street to respond to a possible assault and attempted breaking and entering.

"That's only two blocks from here," Blair said.

"Radio dispatch and tell them we'll take it," Jim checked the traffic and did a U-turn.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

"Larry, look out!" Debra pulled her bleeding husband through the front door just as the baseball bat hit the window and caused shattered glass to fly everywhere.

She'd known her neighbor was a crude, nasty man, with no pride in his neighborhood, but she'd never expected this. He'd gone crazy when Larry had politely suggested he might want to pick up all the trash in his yard. Larry had even offered to help, saying that raccoons had probably gotten into it.

That was when Mr. Rice had started screaming obscenities and she'd run inside to call the police. While she was on the phone, her neighbor had come after Larry with a baseball bat. Now he was trying to get in.

Another blow of the bat splintered the mullions on the door. Debra shrieked as he reached through to unlock it.

Maybe reporting him to the Health Department had been a bad idea.


	8. Chapter 8

Jim pulled the pickup truck to the curb and killed the engine. The front lawn of the shabby house was littered from one end to the other with garbage.

"Can you hear anything inside?" Blair asked.

Jim focused through a narrow gap in the faded green curtains covering the picture window, using his sight to guide his hearing. Another noise from outside was distracting him, however. Someone in the house next door was crying.

_"Larry, please get up before he comes back."_

"What's happening?" Blair asked.

Jim zeroed in on the voice until he found two people; a woman whose fast breathing was punctuated by little hiccups and another person, a man, gasping and obviously in pain.

"Two people next door, one possibly injured."

The clank of bottles drew him to the suspect's house again.

_"...kill all them sumbitches. Gonna be sorry they messed with me."_

"The suspect is in there." Jim nodded in the direction of the house and pulled his cell phone from his leather jacket, which he tossed to Blair as he got out of the truck. "Call it in. I'm going to check it out."

"Don't you want to wait for backup?"

It was a ritual question, asked dozens of times before.

"Stay in the truck," was the inevitable and unsatisfactory answer.

Blair phoned in the relevant information, all the while keeping an eye on Jim as he made his way cautiously up to the house.

There were plenty of unpleasant aspects of working with a cop. Long hours, boring stakeouts, paperwork--but this was the part Blair hated most. Sure, sitting in the truck had its merits. For one thing, Blair was relatively sure he'd come out of whatever went down in one piece. On the other hand, his imagination provided him with all sorts of grisly outcomes involving Jim.

Jim reached the front porch and peered cautiously through the screen door, then seemed to change his mind about going in that way and started toward the side of the house.

God, Blair hated it when Jim was out of sight. He itched to get out of the truck and follow. Blair tapped his fingers impatiently on the cell phone and then stilled them, wary of making any noise that might distract Jim's senses from the bad guy du jour.

It was times like this when Blair gave his most serious consideration to firearms training. Carrying a gun wasn't something he particularly wanted to do, but it was becoming increasingly impractical for him not to have one. Lately, he'd been wondering why he held on so stubbornly to the illusion that he was a pacifist. It had been ingrained in him since childhood, he supposed--that inner voice that still heard Naomi referring to cops as jack-booted thugs whenever Jim was in a particularly foul mood.

Intellectually Blair believed in the power of passive resistance. It had worked for Gandhi and King, but you couldn't subdue a crackhead with a sit-in, and there were certain people in this world just begging for a pop in the nose.

So Blair had worked through all of his objections to carrying a gun, but the last step was a doozy and he hadn't quite been able to make it.

Blair wondered sometimes if he was waiting for Jim to get killed.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Chickenshits had locked themselves in the bathroom. Stupid people. Doors were practically made out of cardboard these days.

Fred downed the last of the bottle of Jack and threw it into the sink. What he needed was...

What did he need? To lie down, mostly. It was getting harder to focus. He'd had too much to drink.

One look out the kitchen window reminded him of his purpose. He stumbled into the garage and looked around, trying to remember where he left it. Even his thoughts seemed to have slowed down. There it was, behind the broken lawnmower. That bathroom door wouldn't hold up for long now.


	9. Chapter 9

Jim had intended to enter the house from the front. That plan had been abandoned as soon as he got a look at the obstacle course of empty beer cans and liquor bottles on the living room floor. There was no way he could get the drop on the suspect without making enough noise to wake the dead. Not to mention the beating his senses were taking just standing outside the door. The interior reeked of alcohol, vomit, urine, and unwashed dishes. He'd have to dial down his senses to dead to make it through.

There had to be a back door or a street entrance to the garage.

Jim moved carefully down the steps, avoiding the more warped boards, and walked quickly to the side of the house.

_"Hah! There you are, you bastard!"_

Whatever the man had been looking for, he'd found it. Jim stopped when he reached the side of the building. There was a brief clang of metal against metal, and then heavy footsteps as the man made his way back to the front of the house. He was moving quickly, and Jim had no doubt he was headed outside.

Which meant he'd see the truck parked out front. With Sandburg in it.

Quietly, Jim positioned himself at the corner of the house and raised his gun.

The screen door slammed open hard enough to knock it off its hinges but this time Jim was ready for the noise and leveled his gun at the portly, middle aged man standing on the porch in his boxer shorts with an axe in his hands.

"Cascade PD. Stop right there and put your weapon down."

The man turned to Jim, stared him straight in the eye and flipped him the bird. With a speed that seemed impossible for a man of his size and inebriation, he moved to the edge of the porch, jumped off and started running toward the pickup truck with the axe held sideways in both hands like he was getting ready to hit one out of the ballpark.

"Stop, or I'll shoot!"

The words had no impact on the man, but Jim held his fire. Sandburg was already out of the truck, and by the time the windshield shattered his partner had sprinted halfway down the street. The kid could haul ass when motivated.

The blade of the axe had gone through the passenger side of the windshield, spiderwebbing the glass, and had lodged firmly in the dashboard, effectively disarming him. Jim winced at the damage. Looked like he was in for another weekend at the junkyard.

Blair was edging back up the street in Jim's direction, talking to Simon on the cell phone.

_"The man's name is probably Frederick Rice,"_ Blair spoke to Jim in a low voice. _"Some officers were out here last week because the neighbors thought he poisoned their dog."_

"Mr. Rice?"

The man didn't answer. He was still trying, red faced and grunting, to pull the axe from the interior of Jim's truck.

"Mr. Rice, why don't you stop for a minute and talk to me?"

Rice turned and stared at him.

"Tell me about your neighbors, sir. I understand you're having some trouble with them?"

Blair was closer now, and said, _"The neighbors just called 9-1-1. No serious injuries. Ambulance and backup should be here any second."_

Jim holstered his gun slowly and approached the angry man with his hands out and a smile on his face.

"I'll kill 'em."

The man had abandoned the axe and was now swaying back and forth as if buffeted by a gentle breeze.

"Killing them won't solve anything."

"They keep stickin' their nose in my business."

Jim was about to say something else when his foot hit the slimy cardboard of a TV dinner tray coated with a thin layer of simulated gravy. This happened at about the same time the approaching sirens reached the level of normal human hearing.

Rice went nuts.

Jim's loss of balance was all the opening Fred needed to tackle him to the ground.


	10. Chapter 10

_"From now on," _Blair thought as he dropped the cell phone and rushed to help his partner, _"When Jim tells me to stay in the truck, I'm going to invoke the Axe Incident."_

Rice, drunk as he was, didn't hit Jim very hard when he knocked him down, but he was a heavy dude and Jim was having difficulty getting the upper hand. It was obvious that Jim was trying to end this without hurting the guy too badly. He easily blocked punches that had no real power behind them, but didn't have the leverage to get up.

Blair came up behind Rice and grabbed onto his left wrist. Rice's reaction was instantaneous and unexpected. He turned and punched Blair in the jaw with his right fist so hard that Blair saw bright red pinpoints of light dancing in front of him.

Blair managed to retain his iron grip on the man's wrist and put all of his weight into falling backward and pulling Rice with him.

Jim was able to get up then, but now their positions were reversed and it was Blair who was pinned by Rice, trying to deflect his blows. The man had landed with his knee painfully digging into Blair's right thigh, and Blair just didn't have the muscle to push him off with his left leg. The guy was in an entirely different weight class.

Blair stopped thinking about forming a coherent battle plan at that point and concentrated instead on fending off the vicious blows coming his way. Two made it through his defenses, one landing painfully on his shoulder and another on his already sore jaw. Blair was pretty sure Rice hadn't been pummeling Jim this hard.

Meanwhile, Jim had sprung up from his prone position in one fluid motion and put his forearm on Rice's throat. It looked like a sleeper hold, but it didn't seem to be slowing the enraged man down. In fact, it seemed to piss him off more. In this position, Jim could easily snap Rice's neck, but he wouldn't do that unless Blair were in real trouble.

Rice continued trying to punch Blair as his face turned a dark red--whether from lack of oxygen or anger, Blair couldn't tell. He was definitely losing steam, though, and an eternity later, the attack slowed and Rice became still.

It was hard to hear what Jim was saying through the heavy sounds of breathing coming from all three men and the pounding of blood in Blair's ears. Jim was using the icy, commanding tone that had reportedly once made a suspect wet himself. Something about getting off of him.

Sounded good to Blair.

Whatever Jim said, it seemed to get through to the man. Rice lifted his leg up and over Blair until he was kneeling beside him. As soon as he was clear Blair closed his eyes in relief. The cool grass beneath his head was really was pretty comfortable. Maybe Jim wouldn't mind if he just passed out for a minute or two...

"Chief?" Jim's voice carried an undercurrent of worry.

"Guess you would," Blair said as he rolled over and got to his feet, grabbing the back of Jim's shirt at a sudden wave of dizziness.

"You OK?"

Blair took a quick inventory. Nothing bleeding except for his lip, but he was going to be black and blue for a week, and right now his face hurt like hell. "No."

Blair saw the muscles in Jim's jaw spasm, and his grip on the gun tighten and amended his statement. He let go of Jim's shirt long enough for a quick pat on the back. "I'll live, man."

Jim released his hold on Rice's neck and ordered him to put his hands on his head.

Movement caught Blair's eye and he turned to see Rice's neighbors coming out of their house. Mr. Russell was holding a handkerchief to his left eye.

"Stay in your house," Jim yelled.

They were oblivious in their indignation.

Mrs. Russell, who probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet, glared at Rice and shook her finger at him, as if the gesture alone could subdue the man. "He tried to kill us!"

Mr. Russell, trying to salvage some dignity, looked Jim in the eye and said in a deep voice, "I want you to arrest that man, now!"

"No way," Blair muttered. "We're just here to take him out for some latte."

"Sir," Jim said, "you and your wife need to get back in your house until..."

Rice saw his neighbors and let out a bellow of rage. He struck out at Jim with an elbow, knocking him off balance, and lunged at Mr. Russell.

Jim didn't try to regain his balance, instead he reached out and grabbed Rice's ankle with both hands and twisted, causing Rice to hit the ground hard.

The Russell's retreated into their house at Mach 10.

"Pretty fast, for yuppies," Blair reflected as he shook off the last of his dizziness and dove in for round two.


	11. Chapter 11

Simon looked up as the door to his office opened. He was fully prepared to ream Sandburg for not knocking again but his mouth snapped shut as he saw Joel enter with a worried look on his face.

"What is it?"

"Blair just called in for backup. Something about a man with an axe."

"Not Sam Ward?" Simon had met the jewelry store owner, and thought he was more likely to cause his men to commit hari kari than do anyone physical harm. The man had a talent for talking about nothing at great length.

Joel laughed at the visual image despite the gravity of the situation. "No, Sir. They took a call on an assault in progress."

"ETA on backup?"

"Four minutes."

"Keep me posted."

"Will do." Joel retreated and closed the door.

Simon removed his glasses, massaged the bridge of his nose and tried to focus on the papers in front of him. He wasn't going to get anything done until he heard word, but if he didn't look worried, then his men wouldn't worry.

Which was a load of crap.

What would really happen was that his men would pretend not to be worried, because he was pretending not to be worried.

"Ah, the hell with it," Simon got up from his desk and joined his men in the bullpen.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Somehow--it happened so fast that Blair didn't think he'd ever be able to piece it together--Rice managed to knock Jim on his ass and make a break for the house.

Jim was up and after him like a shot, with Blair hot on his heels. The adrenaline spike Blair was experiencing couldn't quite quench the Bad Feeling he had about chasing a homicidal maniac into his own home.

Blair should have told Jim to hold up, wait for backup--but his mind was on overdrive, preoccupied with things like breathing, pain, fear, and an almost insane determination not to let the guy get away. As he leaped up onto the porch, bypassing the steps, it occurred to him that this was the feeling that caused cops to go ballistic and hurt suspects.

Jim stopped abruptly just inside the living room. Blair skidded to a stop just short of knocking his friend over. Jim was scanning the house with his senses. Blair used the brief pause to collect himself. It would be nice to be able to control his emotional reactions like Jim did. Maybe that ability would come with time and experience, like Jim was always telling him, but Blair suspected that his own personality prevented it.

The living room was furnished in early yard sale. Shag carpeting, plaid upholstery in shades of brown, a plywood cuckoo clock thick with dust, a coffee table with a heavily chipped and scratched glass top. Every horizontal surface was littered with papers, bills, half-empty glasses, beer cans, plastic dinner plates, and even a couple of pizza boxes. Maybe Rice was just a slob, or maybe he had more problems than an all-night bender and annoying neighbors.

Jim unholstered his gun and Blair's stomach did a space walk. Something in the situation had changed.

"What?" Blair whispered.

Jim held up his hand, and gestured to Blair to stay behind him. They crept silently across the living room, attention focused on the short hallway to the kitchen. Well, it would have been silently, if Blair hadn't brushed his leg against a small pyramid of beer cans, causing them to collapse in a pile around his ankle. He was really glad he'd gone to the bathroom before they left the station. Especially when the barrel of a shotgun appeared around the corner, pointed straight at them.


	12. Chapter 12

"Donshu move," Rice said, concentrating hard to form the words with lips that felt numb.

It seemed to him that there were a lot more guys in his living room than there'd been mugging him outside earlier. Could be the whiskey though. Should've known they'd try to get him while he was weak. Bastards.

"Donshu come 'ny closher," he said, just in case they hadn't understood him the first time.

Funny, he didn't remember his dad's gun weighing so much, but he couldn't hold the damn thing up any more. All he really wanted to do was sit down. The cops must've gassed him.

Bastards.

* * *

"Well," Blair said dryly, "That was anticlimactic."

"That's just the way I like it, Chief." Jim navigated through the debris on the floor and snagged the shotgun, which he handed to Blair while he put cuffs on Rice, who was slumped against the wall and snoring loudly. As soon as he was secured, Jim took the shotgun from his partner and checked the chamber. "Empty," he announced.

"That's a relief. Good thing you didn't shoot him."

"Yeah. Go tell the uniforms we're in here."

Blair hadn't even heard the sirens.

He walked out onto the front porch to see two Cascade PD squad cars by the curb. He waved the emerging officers over to the house.

It took a certain amount of skill to carry a drunk. They tended to be bonelessly uncooperative and were easy to drop. The uniformed officers seemed surprised that Blair had some skill in it.

"I've been in college for a looong time, man," he said. It was really all the explanation they needed.

Nevertheless, all of them were out of breath by the time they managed to pour Rice into the back of the squad car.

"Wait until he's sober to read him his rights," Jim commanded over his shoulder as he approached Blair.

An ambulance had arrived right behind the cruiser, and a medic was working on Rice's neighbors. Jim grabbed Blair's elbow. "Come on, Rocky, let's get you checked out."

"I'm fine, man." Which was almost true. The dizziness had disappeared, but his face hurt like hell.

"Humor me."

A few minutes later, the medics had come to the same conclusion as Blair. They told him to apply a cold pack, take two ibuprofens and instructed him to see his own doctor.

"Told you," Blair said and then noticed that Jim was walking a little stiffly. He stopped the medics as they were closing the door and preparing to transport Mr. Russell and his wife to Cascade General.

"You want to check out Detective Ellison too, please?"

"Chief," Jim said, wincing. "There's no need for that. I'm fine. Just getting a little too old to be playing tackle football with drunks."

"Humor me."

The medics recommended a heating pad instead of a cold pack, but the rest of their advice was the same.

"Happy now?" Jim asked, swatting Blair lightly on the back of the head.

"Ouch!" It hadn't hurt, but Blair winced and scowled at Jim anyway. "Ecstatic."

Officer Henry, a female officer Blair had seen a few times before, was standing a short distance away giving him the once over. He hoped she wasn't going to make a move on him because he'd made it a personal rule never to get involved with married women. Especially when they were married to other cops.

"What?"

Her partner strolled over and asked, "That guy was really scary, huh?"

"Not particularly, why?"

"Well..." the female cop said and craned her neck to look at Blair's backside.

He hadn't noticed, in all the commotion, the wetness on the back of his jeans. It must have happened during the scuffle in the yard. "Oh, hey, man, I fell on a beer can."

"Sure," Officer Henry smirked.

Jim turned his attention to the two uniforms. "He fell saving my life. You have a problem with that?"

The officers' smiles faded and they shook their heads quickly. "No, Detective."

"You have something you need to be doing?"

They sulked away like children who had just been sent to the principal's office.

"Thanks, man, but don't you think you were overstating things a little?"

Jim just shrugged and walked to the truck.

Blair hurried to catch up. "I mean, you could have handled this easily without me, you know?"

"No, I don't know. And you don't either. Never underestimate an adversary. Last night you were sure that no one could beat you at poker. Conner saw that weakness and used it to clean your clock."

"But that's not the same..."

"Yes it is," Jim said patiently. "Look," he gestured at the axe sticking through the windshield. "What do you think Mr. Rice's intent was here? To decorate my dash or split your skull?"

Jim pulled at the handle. "The force required to sink the axe head this deep is pretty considerable, Chief. He was drunk, but he was also enraged and he wanted to kill someone. If he'd landed a good punch, he could have taken me out."

Blair shuddered, "OK, man, I get your point."

"I hope so, because the next thing we're going to talk about is how to properly subdue a suspect."

Blair rubbed his jaw. "Grabbing his wrist seemed like a good idea at the time."

"If he only had one arm...maybe."

"Believe me, I got the message, loud and clear man. So what are we going to do about the truck?"

"The engine still works." Jim took off his jacket brushed glass from the seat.

"Aren't you going to try to get this thing off?" Blair grasped the axe handle in both hands and pulled. Nothing happened.

"Nope."

"But we can't drive around like this. People will think..."

"...someone put an axe through the windshield. Hop in, Chief, we'll follow a squad car back. And try not to open your mouth."

Blair was nearly offended until he saw Jim gesturing at the hole in the glass.

"Bugs."


	13. Chapter 13

Fred woke up to find his face plastered to the vinyl seat of a police car. He recognized the smell of it. Cops had picked him up for being drunk in public once. Like it was any of their business.

His nice buzz had been replaced by a headache, and he was starting to get really ticked off. The Russell's were probably already pissing and moaning about how frightened they'd been and how they wanted to press charges. Like they hadn't done enough to him already. He'd only been trying to scare them.

And the cops. What right did they have to attack him in his own god damned front yard? In his own **house**? A man couldn't even have a beer any more without worrying about police brutality. The big one had damned near ripped his head off. All because he'd dented the cop's piece of shit truck.

The cop in the passenger seat looked back and read him his rights. Said he was being arrested for assault on an officer.

"Bullshit," Fred mumbled. "I'll have the NAACP or the ASPCA or the NRA--or whoever those damn people are--up here chewing you a new asshole for violating my God given right to defend myself."

"Save it for the interrogation, buddy."

Fred glared at the back of the female officer's head. Same bitch who'd been over last week about the dog. He wished he had one of those automatic weapons they always show on cop shows.

He'd take them all out.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Simon looked up from his paperwork as a knock sounded at the door. He could see Jim through the blinds.

"Come in."

"Hi, Simon."

"Where's your louder half?"

Jim grinned. "Getting changed. He'll be up in a minute."

"Hear you two had some trouble today."

"Yeah, we went a couple of rounds with a drunk."

"I heard your truck went a couple of rounds with him, too."

"Yeah," Jim said glumly. "The truck lost."

Jim went on to describe the damage to the Ford as Simon gnawed on his cigar and shook his head in disbelief.

"Would've paid good money to see you two driving around like that," Simon chuckled. "How about Sandburg?"

"You can see for yourself," Jim said just before another knock on the door.

The door was half open before Simon could get the words "Come in." out of his mouth. Kid was harder to train than Daryl's new puppy. Simon didn't have the heart to yell at him this time. The left side of his face was swollen and a dark bruise was starting to blossom under his eye.

"Hey, Simon."

"Hey yourself. You look like hell. Want a cup of coffee?"

"Definitely," Blair set his cold pack down on the table and disappeared into the bullpen. A moment later he returned with two mugs. He handed one to Jim and held the other out to Simon, who filled it. He took a long sip before sitting down at the conference table with a contented sigh. "Thanks, man. I really needed that."

"So why don't you give me the short version," Simon directed Jim when they were both had their own coffee.

When Jim had finished the story, with plenty of Sandburg commentary on the side, Simon said, "Sounds like his jet's not running on all engines."

Blair snorted. "That's an understatement."

"I'll have him transferred over to Cascade General for a 24-hour psych evaluation."

"Sounds like a good idea," Jim said. "I don't think his neighbors are going to survive the next time he blows up."


	14. Chapter 14

Fingerprinted, photographed and pushed around like a crack addict. What in the hell was the world coming too? Now they were talking about taking him to the hospital for observation. Probably wanted to make sure he was OK so he couldn't bring the cops up on brutality charges.

His neck still hurt, maybe he could convince them to put one of those collar thingies on him. That would get the judge's sympathy for sure.

* * *

Megan passed Sandy in the hallway and did a double-take. She'd heard he'd been in a fracas earlier, but she'd gathered that it hadn't been too serious. She didn't know how American cops defined serious, but he looked like he'd been hit with a two-by-four.

"Wow, Sandy, I hope the other guy looks worse than you do."

"Nope," Blair shook his head sadly. "Some bruising on his knuckles, maybe. Pummeling me took a lot out of him."

Megan saw right through Blair's ploy for sympathy, but she played along anyway. "Hurt much?"

Blair's eyes sparkled with humor, "Only when I smile."

Damn. She was going to have to revise her opinion about Sandy. It was quite possible that he was her type.


	15. Chapter 15

"Come on, Rice. Time to see the men in the white coats."

"What do you mean?" Fred stood up from the bunk and waited for the cop to open the cell door.

"Cascade General. You're going in for observation."

"They think I'm nuts?" Rice asked.

"That's about it."

Nuts. They were going to try put him in the loony bin to shut him up. Well, that wasn't gonna happen. He'd worked hard all his life, paid his bills on time and never bothered anyone, and now they were going to put him in with a bunch of crazy people?

He knew who it was. It was the Russells. They set this whole thing up to trap him into doing something the cops could arrest him for. Russell probably worked for the phone company, too. They wanted him out of the way so they could move some of their Beaver Cleaver friends into his house. Well that wasn't going to happen. He'd see them dead before he gave it up.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

The parking garage was pretty quiet at this time of day. Most of the officers were in the middle of their shifts. Blair had no trouble finding a parking spot. He'd hitched a ride with Officer Hanson earlier so that he could pick up the Volvo at the loft.

Jim's truck was going to be out of commission for a few days until they could repair the dashboard and replace the windshield. One of the advantages of Jim having an older model truck was that they could usually find replacement parts in the local salvage yard. It required a bigger investment in time than just dropping it off at the dealership, but it was also a lot cheaper. That was an important consideration for a man who had to dig bullets out of the body every couple of weeks.

Blair didn't mind much. He was learning a lot about auto body work. Blair grinned to himself. Just another skill to add to his growing list of backup careers.

As he walked to the elevators, Blair noticed one of the Cascade PD prisoner transport vans was parked near the entrance and skirted around it, peeking over the open door to check out who was being loaded. He'd seen everything from drag queens to department store Santa's in the back of that van since he'd started working with Jim.

It turned out to be Mr. Rice. Blair's hand went instinctively to his jaw. The guy looked a little more sober, and as a consequence, a little less threatening. His hands were cuffed in front of him. He was docile as two officers helped him into the van.

And then all hell broke loose.

Rice turned suddenly and pitched himself against the two officers who were standing at the edge of the back doors of the van, pushing hard and causing both of them to topple out and hit the ground. Blair heard a sickening crack as Tony Shelley screamed out in pain.

His partner, Rob Watson started to his feet instantly, going for his gun. Rice, whose hands were cuffed in front of him, kicked out at the officer's knee before Rob could gain his balance, then moved in and kicked him several times in the head as he lay on the ground.

Blair turned in the direction of the guard post and yelled as loudly as he could, knowing there were always officers on duty in the garage. It had been a closely watched area ever since Garret Kincaid and his pals had taken over the station. "Hey, we need help over here! There's an officer down and a prisoner loose."

Blair turned around again and found himself face to face with Rob's police issue .45. Only it wasn't Rob who was holding it. Blair looked in alarm past Rice and saw the officer lying still on the floor with a growing puddle of blood under his head.

"Oh, shit."

"Shit is right, you bastard. Why were they taking me to see a shrink, huh?"

_Because you're as nutty as Naomi's banana bread?_

"You, uh...seemed to be having an anger management problem. They thought the people at the hospital might be able to help."

"Bullshit. Do the Russells have my house yet?"

"The Russells?"

"Don't bullshit me!"

Blair flinched as the man jabbed the barrel of the gun into his forehead.

"Hold it right there!"

Two officers had rounded the side of the van at a dead run with their guns raised.

"You hold it, you bastards." Rice nodded at Blair. "I've got a hostage," He pulled on the front of Blair's jacket. "See? You don't want me to shoot one of your guys, do you?"

"No, sir," the officer in charge said calmly.

Blair thought he'd seen him around before, but couldn't remember his name. He did, however, know the names of the three detectives, two captains, and one inspector who were taking up positions behind nearby cars.

Simon took charge immediately. "Mr. Rice, this is a bad situation we're in. What can we do to resolve it?"

"I want my house back."

"Your house?" Simon looked as confused as Blair felt.

"I want the god damned people who moved in after you arrested me out. The Russells had no right to just take over like that." Rice's voice wavered a little as he took in the number of guns pointed at him.

"Sir," Simon said calmly. "No one took over your house. It belongs to you."

"Bullshit. They were just waiting 'til they got me out. They're probably over there mowing the lawn right now."

_"Why?",_ Blair wondered. _"Why can't I be threatened by a criminal who isn't a complete head case?"_

"Would you like us to send a squad car over and make sure everything's all right, Mr. Rice?" Simon asked.

"You think I'd believe you? You're the ones who attacked me in my own home and kidnapped me. You helped them get me out of the way."

Rice seemed to notice his handcuffs then. He pushed at Blair's forehead with the gun.

Blair flinched. He never hated guns more than when they were pointed at him.

"Get these things off me."

"I don't have the key, man."

"Get them OFF!"

"OK, OK. Chill, OK?" With an effort, Blair calmed the shrill tone in his voice. He was on the verge of panic, but Rice didn't need to know that. "We need to find a key, right?"

"Yeah."

Blair glanced at the fallen officers behind him. Tony was holding his arm close to his chest. There was an obvious break there, but he'd managed to get into a position to stem the bleeding of his partner's head wound with his good hand. The scene brought back a vivid memory Jim lying unconscious on the floor of the Cascade Credit Union while Blair tried desperately to stop him from bleeding to death from a gunshot wound. Blair closed his eyes and took a deep breath and forcibly pulled himself back to the current situation. He noticed that Tony's gun wasn't in its holster, and wondered if Rice had taken that one, too.

"Officer Shelley," Blair asked, "Do you have the handcuff key?"

Tony glared at Rice. "No," he lied. "We don't keep them with us any more. Security reasons."

"Liar!" Rice bellowed and pushed Blair back against the van. "Tell me where it is or I'll shoot him!"

Blair placed the palm of his hand on Rice's chest in an effort to calm him. Time to put his bluffing skills to good use. "Hey, you remember when the Sunrise Patriots took over the station two years ago, don't you? It was in all the papers. We had to change the way we do things a little bit. It's cool. We'll just send somebody to get the key, OK?"

Rice thought for a minute and looked confused again. "Forget it. I want to go home."

Blair searched out Jim but he wasn't where he'd been a few seconds ago. Blair hoped that meant he was ready to pounce.

"OK," Simon said reasonably. "We can do that."

"And I want my goddamn phone turned back on."

"That shouldn't be a problem."

"And I want my goddamn neighbors gone, you understand me? They ain't been nothing but trouble since they moved in."

"We'll talk to them, too."

Rice looked at the prisoner transport. There were no windows in the back. He looked at the captain. "You drive us there in this. We'll stay in the back so your snipers can't shoot me. You do one funny thing and I'll kill this god damned cop. You understand?"

"Yes."

Rice shoved Blair toward the back of the van. "Get in."

Blair couldn't come up with any daring plan to end the standoff that wasn't also incredibly stupid, so he got in.

Rice must have realized the inequity of having his own hands cuffed while his prisoner was free, because he turned to Tony and demanded his set. Tony turned them over reluctantly, with a look on his face that would have scared most suspects. Rice was oblivious. Still training his gun on Blair, he climbed into the back of the van and ordered Tony to shut the doors.

They closed with a dull thump. It was the loneliest sound Blair had ever heard. Now there was no way to get out until someone opened the doors from the outside. What if the guy went stir crazy before they got to the house?

The intercom buzzed to life and a welcome, familiar voice issued from the speaker.

Jim, sounding tinny and distant, said, _"Mr. Rice, we're going to drive to your house now. The trip should take about 10 minutes. This is a two way speaker, so if you have any questions, speak up."_

Rice didn't answer. His brows were furrowed in concentration and Blair wondered if he was finally realizing that he'd lost his grip on reality.

_I couldn't get that lucky._

With a rumble of the engine, the van started moving slowly out of the parking garage. It would have been nice to be able to see where they were going.

_"Mr. Sandburg, are you all right?" _Jim asked.

"Yeah, fine."

"Why did he call you 'Mr.' Sandburg?"

"I'm not a cop. I'm a civilian observer. That's why I was waiting in the truck earlier today. I don't even carry a gun, man."

"Civilian observer..." Rice mulled over the word. "_Civilian_ observer."

Blair didn't much care for the way Rice had put the emphasis on the word 'civilian' the second time he said it. Better explain quick. "Yes. I'm studying..."

Rice stood up, balled his fist and punched Blair hard in the mouth before he could get another word out. He fell off the narrow bench onto the cold metal floor and lay there, trying to gather his marbles. They were rolling all over the place. Blair stifled the urge to laugh.

"Me!" Rice yelled. "You been spying on me. I knew it. You bastards."

Blair was afraid if he spoke it would just enrage the man further so he stayed put and tried to control his breathing. The van came to an abrupt halt and he put out a hand to stop himself from sliding on the floor.

_That would be Jim._

Rice knelt next to Blair and put the gun to his head, waiting for the doors to open. They did, seconds later, allowing bright daylight to flood the small space. They'd already reached the outskirts of Cascade. Blair moved his head slightly and saw a half dozen police cruisers with their lights flashing beyond the door.

Their glow was soon obliterated by a dark shadow that could only be a pissed off sentinel.


	16. Chapter 16

"Paranoid delusions," Jim muttered as he slammed on the brakes.

"What happened?" Simon asked.

"He hit Sandburg," Jim said.

No other explanation was needed. Simon got out of the van and circled around to the back, motioning to the officers in the squad car directly behind them to get into position.

Simon was looking at Jim expectantly, as if he thought Jim could use his amazing x-ray vision to see into the back of the van.

Damn it, it wasn't that easy. All Jim's senses told him about what was going on inside the van right now was that both men were still breathing. They couldn't tell him where Rice was pointing his gun or whether or not he was going to pull the trigger.

Sometimes being a sentinel was highly over-rated.

"Rice," Jim announced loudly, "I'm going to open the door slowly."

Jim didn't wait for an answer. He pulled the handle on the van and opened it. Light flooded in on Rice, who was squatting over a very tense but relatively healthy looking Sandburg. The gun was pointed at his partner's head.

"Why did you stop?" Rice asked angrily.

Simon, who had positioned himself as far away from Jim as he could and still be seen by the suspect, pointed his gun at the sky and spoke softly. "We were concerned about Mr. Sandburg's safety, sir. We don't want anyone else to get hurt here."

"Maybe you don't," Rice said, the quaver in his voice betraying his bravado. He nervously switched his attention back and forth between Simon and Jim. "But I'm itching to see every last one of you in Hell. Now shut the damn doors and take me home."

Jim held his gun out to Simon. "We can't do that, sir. I'm going to have to ride in back with you."

Simon took the gun reluctantly.

"You just want to come back here so you can jump me."

"You have the gun. I'm unarmed." Jim turned slowly and lifted the back of his jacket to show Rice he didn't have any more weapons.

Rice wavered. Sobriety and fear had tempered some of his rage, but Jim wasn't sure how hard he could push before the man snapped again.

"I don't think you have any choice. We're not moving this van unless I'm sitting in the back," Jim said in a voice that brooked no argument. "You want to go home, don't you?"

Rice weighed his options. After giving the line of police cruisers behind him a hard stare, he grumbled, "Fine. Get in."

Jim climbed in and leaned down to check on his partner. Sandburg's heart was racing and his lip was bleeding again, but otherwise he seemed fine.

"Hey man. Welcome to the party." Blair said softly.

The doors of the van shut softly behind him.

"Sit down," Rice commanded.

Jim straightened slowly and looked Rice in the eyes for long seconds before sitting down on the bench.

Rice produced the handcuffs. "Put one around your left wrist and the other around his left."

That would put Jim at a disadvantage, so he ignored the command, cuffing Blair's right wrist instead.

"I said his left wrist, asshole. What are you, some kind of moron?"

Jim looked up and shrugged. "Sorry. Too late."

"What do you mean, too late? God damn it, where's the key?"

"I don't have one," Jim said mildly.

Rice paced back and forth in the small space. "I've had enough of your tricks. Get that spy off the floor and on the bench. I want you both where I can see you."

"Can you move, Chief?"

"Yeah, I'm OK." Sandburg mumbled as he crawled shakily to his feet. His knees buckled and he fell forward into Jim. Jim reached out to help him, but hesitated a moment as he felt his partner reach into the jacket pocket Jim kept his handcuff key in.

Rice reached over and yanked Blair's arm, shoving him around and into the seat next to Jim. "I said no more tricks!"

"Sorry," Sandburg said, fluttering his eyes and slumping over a little. "I'm not feeling well."

It wasn't an entirely convincing performance, but then, Rice didn't know Sandburg as well as Jim did.

"Try that again and I'll shoot you both."

Blair nodded and leaned his head back against the side of the van, closing his eyes. A tiny trickle of blood from his split lip ran down his chin and he wiped it away. Sandburg looked exhausted. It had already been one hell of a day and it wasn't over yet.

Rice moved over to Blair and jabbed the gun at his chest as the van started moving again. "How long you been watching me, Mr. Observer?"

"Back off," Jim commanded, and to his surprise, Rice took a two steps back and sat on the opposite bench.

"I haven't been observing you," Blair sighed heavily and opened his eyes, nodding his head in Jim's direction, "I've been observing him."

"Why the hell you observing him?"

"You know. Police culture, thin blue line, stuff like that."

Rice thought about it for a moment. "Yeah. I think I saw that on the Discovery Channel. You look like one of them egghead types." The man brightened to the subject. "So, you ever been on TV? Done any documentaries?"

"Well, actually..."

"Those Egyptians really know how to bury a guy in style, huh?"

"Sure do," Blair played along.

"So what's it like when you open one of them mummy's tombs? Does it smell bad?"

"Actually, I've never been to Egypt. I did go on an expedition to Yaxchilan. There were the most amazing tombs there..."

Jim tuned out the conversation and evaluated the situation. Having Sandburg attached at the hip was going to make maneuvering more difficult, but it could have been worse. At least his partner was mobile and in one piece. He was nervous, but otherwise holding it together, and his instincts were good. Between the two of them, they should be able to take Rice down. It was going to have to be soon. Sandburg probably wasn't going to get a chance to use that handcuff key.

Jim was sure Rice had more planned than just making sure his home hadn't been invaded by yuppies. The man was uneducated and unstable, but that didn't mean he was stupid.

Jim visualized the layout of Rice's neighborhood. The house was small and surrounded with overgrown bushes and a couple of junked cars. If Rice got inside, he could easily barricade himself and make it very difficult for a sniper to get a good shot at him. They'd confiscated the shotgun, but that didn't mean Rice didn't have other weapons stashed in the house.

Whatever happened, had to happen before they got to the house. It would be up to Jim and Sandburg to get the gun away from him. This time, Jim had no qualms about taking Rice out permanently if he had to. Officer Rob Watson, a 13-year veteran of the Cascade PD--and a man with five children--was probably dead. Jim had heard the frantic resuscitation efforts as he'd driven out of the parking garage.

Rice wasn't going to get the chance to hurt anyone else.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Fred only half listened to what the long haired guy was talking about. It was interesting, but he couldn't understand half of what the geek was saying. Besides, he had other things on his mind. Like how he was going to get over to the Russell's house when he got home. He was gonna be dead by the end of the day, but he sure as hell wasn't going alone. He'd take the big cop and his meddling neighbors with him, and anyone else who got in his way. The smart guy wasn't so bad, and he said he'd been on the Discovery Channel, didn't he? Maybe he'd let him live, if he promised to do a documentary. He could expose what these assholes had done to him.

Fred was sure now that this shit had been going on for a long time. If he thought he could get away with it, he'd go to the garage, too. Kill his boss and that slut who worked for him, and maybe that scraggly bitch with the pinging noise in her engine. They were in on it. Keeping him down, making his life hell.

When Fred tried to focus on why they would do that to him, things got a little fuzzy, but that's the way conspiracies worked. You never knew exactly why they were doing it.

The egghead was still talking when the van finally stopped.


	17. Chapter 17

Successfully retrieving the handcuff key from Jim's pocket had seemed incredibly clever for about ten seconds. After the brief euphoria had worn off, however, Blair realized that there was no way to use it without tipping Rice off immediately.

He could probably expect a lecture from Jim about it once this was over.

Best thing to do now was try to distract Rice and follow Jim's lead. His Yaxchilan lecture had held the man's attention for a few minutes, but now his eyes were glazed over and it was obvious he wasn't paying any attention to Blair at all. Reminded him of some of his freshman students.

The van stopped and Blair's stomach did a flip-flop. Jim and the cops outside would want to wrap this up soon, before it became a full-blown hostage situation.

__

Like it isn't already, man.

Blair had to admit he was having some performance anxiety. He was sure Jim would get them out of this, but it was his own part in it that worried him. If he screwed this up, it would be in front of pretty much the entire Cascade PD. Living through it was the important part, though, Blair reminded himself. The hell with what he looked like; he'd do his best.

Fred motioned with his gun, "Get up. You're going to walk me to my house, and then I'll let you go."

_"Mr. Rice," _Simon yelled from outside the van, _"I'm opening the doors now."_

Beside Blair, Jim tensed and Blair knew that it was going to happen as soon as the doors opened. His heart felt like it was going to leap right out of his chest.

__

You are **not** going to have a heart attack.

Simon swung the door open. Rice, still pointing his gun at Jim, turned his head to look at the captain. It was all the opening Jim needed. He grabbed for the gun, and Blair, by necessity, grabbed with him. He balled his left hand into a fist and brought it hard against Rice's chin.

Blair heard an explosion near his ear and shouting.

Jim hooked a knee under Rice's leg and knocked him off balance. They all went down in a heap to the floor of the van. Blair wasn't really thinking any more. Jim was tenaciously holding on to Rice's wrist with both hands, but there was no space to maneuver. All Blair could do was try to hit Rice until he dropped the gun, but he was unable to get any real force behind his blows.

The guy was not going to shoot Jim. Blair would beat the guy to a bloody pulp if he had to, but he would not let this asshole shoot Jim.

Blair got one leg partially beneath him and pushed up as he swung, finally landing a hard blow to Rice's jaw.

Rice didn't even blink. Instead, he managed to get the barrel of the gun pointed squarely in the middle of Jim's forehead.

Shit. There was no way he was going to let Jim get killed. Just absolutely no way.

Blair pulled back his arm and prepared to strike again.

Rice unexpectedly relaxed his hands and dropped the gun away from Jim's head. The sudden lack of resistance caught Jim by surprise.

"You won't take me alive!" Rice screamed, loudly enough to make Blair's ears buzz.

Jim realized, too late, what Rice intended to do. Blair saw what was coming and lunged forward, trying to knock Rice's hand away. It wasn't enough. Rice moved the gun under his own chin and pulled the trigger.

Blood spattered the inside of the van and Blair shut his eyes tightly against the horror of it.

"Oh, shit!" Blair tried to back out of the van but was stopped short by a sharp pain in his wrist. He opened his eyes just long enough to look at his partner. Jim was staring at Rice with his jaw hanging open. Blair yanked on Jim's arm with both hands in a foolish attempt to get them both out of the van. If he couldn't put a dent in an overweight drunk, how the hell did he think he was going to move Ironman?

"Jim!"

It was probably the panic in Blair's voice that got through to him. Jim turned and looked at Blair, blinking owlishly. "Sandburg, you OK?"

"I will be once we're not here any more."

Other hands were helping them, now, pulling them out of the van and into blinding daylight. Blair was vaguely aware of the captain passing them.

"He's still alive, someone call a medic!" Simon bellowed from inside the van.

"Alive?" Things didn't seem to be conforming to reality at the moment, so Blair sat down hard on the asphalt, again forgetting the cuff on his wrist. "Owowow!"

Jim sat down next him and leaned his head back against the fender of the squad car behind them, trying to catch his breath. Blair heard someone yelling for handcuff keys.

"You OK, Jim?"

Jim just nodded and didn't open his eyes. "How you doing?"

"Hey, man, you don't have to find keys," Blair said, producing Jim's key from his pocket. He reached over to unlock the cuffs.

It was funny really. Blair was sure he'd laugh about it later. His hands were shaking too badly to get the key in the hole.

The sun was blocked by a large shadow, and Blair looked up to see Simon looming over them. Without a word, he reached down, took the key from Blair and unlocked the cuffs.

Blair shook his wrist gently, trying to ease the pain a little. The action had exactly the opposite effect. "Thanks, man."

"How you two doing?"

"He's alive?" Blair asked again.

"Barely. He'll probably buy the farm or spend the rest of his life growing on one."

It shouldn't have been funny. Not after what just happened. And it wasn't, not really. Blair started to laugh. "Geez, Simon. When I grow up I want to be just like you."

"Stop being a smart ass, Sandburg," Simon growled.

Blair wiped tears from his eyes and sobered up as another thought struck him. "Hey, Simon, how's Officer Watson?"

Jim tensed beside him.

"Megan and Rafe managed to resuscitate him. He regained consciousness and he's on the way to the hospital."

Jim relaxed and Blair let out a sigh of relief. "I am _so _glad, man."

Jim finally opened his eyes. "And Tony?"

"Broken arm."

The medics had placed a collar around Rice's neck and were now carrying him out on a backboard. Blood soaked bandages were wrapped around his head and he wasn't moving. Blair shuddered.

"What happened to him, man?"

"What do you mean, Sandburg? He shot himself." Jim was speaking a little too gently, as though he thought Blair might be in shock.

"No, I know that. I mean, what happened to him? He's been on the planet for what, more than 40 years, had a steady job... According to his police report he didn't have much of a record, then one day--boom--he snaps and starts trying to kill people. You can't tell me his neighbors caused that, no matter how irritating they are."

"You're the one with the psych minor, Chief."

Yeah. Yeah he was. And it still didn't help.

Simon held a hand out to Blair to help him up, "Trying to figure it out will just make you crazy, Sandburg. No pun intended."

Once upright, Blair was surprised to learn that his muscles had turned to Jell-o.

He would have landed on his butt under the watchful eyes of about a half dozen of Cascade's finest, but Jim grabbed his arm and steadied him. "Easy, Blair."

"Whoa! I think I'm losing adrenaline here." Blair tried to laugh, but it came out sounding hollow. "I think I'm gonna need a transfusion."

Simon grabbed his other arm and maneuvered him through the chaos. "C'mon. You and Jim can sit in my car for a few minutes until you get your sea legs back."

"Thanks, man."

"No problem, Sandburg. Just don't mess up the upholstery."

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Jim had always been able to recover quickly from stressful situations and gory crime scenes.

Sandburg, however, had not, and probably never would. That's why Jim steered his partner right past Simon's car and over to a relatively secluded spot beside Rice's house.

"Where are we going?" Sandburg asked.

"Somewhere you won't mess up Simon's upholstery."

Sandburg looked more than a little confused by the statement.

And then he didn't.

The yard was already a mess. Sandburg didn't add much to it.

Jim saw a green garden hose coiled up in the driveway. He attached it to the spigot and turned the water on, letting it run for a few moments before dragging the hose over to Sandburg, who removed his head from the shrubbery and leaned heavily against the house.

"Thanks, man."

Jim held the hose for Blair as he cupped his hands and sucked down about a quart of water, then splashed his face. Sandburg straightened under his own steam and dried his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt.

"Better?" Jim asked.

"Getting there." Sandburg's voice was a little less shaky.

Jim replaced the hose and slung an arm around Blair's shoulder, steering him in the direction of Simon's car. "I think it's safe to sit in it now."

Sentinel senses weren't necessary to detect the muscles in Sandburg's back relaxing, or to hear the touch of humor creep into Blair's voice.

"Yeah, if you don't drive."

The End


End file.
